The Injured Lover's Hell
by Passionworks
Summary: Driven by the loss of the love of his life and the wound chiseled hard along his spine, Avatar Aang ponders revenge upon those who thwarted him: Katara herself, and the man she chose to marry instead. Not wanting to inflict physical harm but rather the same subtle emotional pain he endured, he turns to the most unbecoming ally: Princess Azula. Oneshot.


**Author's Note: Dag, I wrote this in its entirety back in 2012, hoping to make it a two-part piece. With an odd combination of satisfaction in what stands here and absolute laziness in continuing further, this will remain a oneshot with one of those, "I know you crave more but I won't deliver" type conclusions that hangs on an atrocious cliffhanger. My finishing delivery seems almost a teasing prose, however, there are many Azulaang stories on this site with the tune of this one that have seen to less jagged endings, so the second half of the plot that will never see the light of day in mine should be obvious if you think on it, making the need for me to add more to the story rather low… Where it ends is where it ends.**

**Despite having written this piece in 2012, I still have a fondness for it. It is in a more archaic writing style than the one I have now, but unlike a lot of my older titles, this one still has my respect, and I hope others like it too.**

**Enjoy this little bitty that remained lost in my deep sea of a flash drive for almost two years!**

The Injured Lover's Hell

By: Passionworks

"_Jealousy is the injured lover's hell."_

"_He that studieth revenge keepeth his own wounds green, which would otherwise heal and do well."_

_-John Milton_

Upon the wake of every morn after the Avatar's resurrection from death, the waterbender sought his sleeping chambers and healed his wounds. As he rested within his unconscious realm, she tenderly peeled his tattered, burned robes from his skin, folded them at the very foot of his bed, and nursed his scars with the tender touch of her tepid bending water. Her cerulean pools swirled and twisted about the contours and deep innards of the cut upon his spine, and she took note in a symbolic way that it ravaged at his blue tattoo, seared it and divided it along his back.

When he woke after almost a month under a coma, she told him, with sincere sadness, that his arrow, and, she supposed, the energy that spiraled inside of him, were ultimately cut off and torn when he was defeated. He, too, shared her discouragement, voicing it often when she spoke of training and the prospects of him defeating the Firelord before the summer's end. But even so, her duties to mending him were firm and unyielding.

Every day, she set about tending to his needs, putting his welfare above all others, including her brother, father, and allies. She rarely left his bedside, minus only the minutes she spent garnering his meals, consorting above deck with those she shared the ship with, and refilling her pouch. She slept courteously by his side, oftentimes finding herself being pulled awake by her fears of him falling ill from infection or ultimately succumbing to his injuries. She told him she loved him too –on every occasion –and that she cared for him deeply; and that if it had not been for Iroh's surrender in the Crystal Catacombs of Old Ba Sing Se, he would not be alive today.

And he trusted her every word, because it was her voice that kept him going each day, her closeness that kept him warm each night, and her skill that kept him alive to see another sunrise. She was his attachment to the universe, the thread which the beat of his heart strummed.

It came as a complete disappointment when he learned later that she lied, and loved another, even after saying the meaningful words that invigorated his soul and passion. Even after sharing kisses and whispers with him in the night. Even after reviving him from eternal sleep and offering him the opportunity to live once again.

After admitting her secret affair, she labeled him a kid brother, an optimistic pal, one that would easily bounce back from this and find another lover, just as she had done. And whatever affection she had shared with him, she said as she wrapped him in an outwardly meaningless hug, was a distant memory to her. A fleeting moment, she called the romance, like the clouds they had bent together in a town so utterly obsessed by fortunetelling and psychic predictions. The tapestry they had woven in the clouds faded with the day; his face had faded to reveal a new love to her.

There was a stinging he felt coursing through his arrow when she told him this; he felt his wound singe and char, as if it was being inflicted over and over…

Twice, three times, four times, five.

He heard through gossiping undertones that she abandoned him after she revived the Firelord's lightning-ravaged heart on the day of Sozin's Comet. He adopted the notion then that she was destined to be easily won over –that it was her fate to instantly develop feelings for every man whose health and wellbeing depended solely on her medicinal methods.

And it was no surprise to him when she publically announced her engagement to the Firelord. Upon the morn that he received his cordial invitation to attend the ceremony, he sent it ablaze, and found himself driven by the possibility of retribution, something he had religiously sworn himself against in the midst of maintaining his gentle spirit. But what had humility offered for him, but the loss of a future wife and faith in morality?

A subtle, yet orgasmic decrease of pain he felt in his wound vanquished any doubts he had. A reduction almost like numbed drunkenness, it seemed, but without the drain of mind. His head was clear and his objective was firm.

The pitch-black cinders of his love's wedding invitation sprinkled down to the floor at his bare feet. Whatever words the parchment had read were burned to naught, but engraved in his mind were they, deep and etched into him like stone chiseled into shape.

He would refute his lover's optimism. He would lash out, unleash his fury. No, he would not lay a hand on her and soil the purity of her. He would do a more sinister deed, and both soon-to-be husband and wife would feel the same twinge that he felt –pulsating like an overworked heart at his spine –deep in their chests. Regret would be the only emotion they would ever feel, to which the only antidote would be to turn back all ties on one another, and assume their old lives. Yes, the Avatar would make this happen, rekindle his unrequited romance, and the one person he needed to make that happen was one far more vulnerable than he…

The mad princess.

Azula.


End file.
